


Pez and a Picnic

by flutter



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Pretender
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-15
Updated: 2005-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutter/pseuds/flutter





	Pez and a Picnic

The Centre, full of ruthless people and mysteries, held him captive even after escaping their facility. They were always in his head, always pushing him to think like this, to create that. He saw them in the dark blue of shadow behind doorways, felt them creep upon him in long corridors; they weren’t but they may as well have been. Jarod liked to think that was why he was two steps ahead of them—always two steps ahead.   
  
In the daylight, when the sun cast moving shadows, it was as though a bright lamp swayed and dangled in front of his eyes. Memories crept in upon him, struggled to get in. They were eager to squirm under his skin, bounce off the insides of his skull. It was only ever him—no, that’s not right, there were others, but he couldn’t remember. When he closed his eyes though, it was him and he was alone—no one to talk to, no one to play with.  
  
He sat in rooms with no more than a desk, schematics and figures, designing weaponry. He sat, beat continuously with questions, as his throat burned, dried out, until he could no longer speak. He sat, in a cell fit no better than for a dog, and lived.  
  
He had been a prisoner—he knew in the end, knew now.  
  
Despite the rip of pain through his chest when he thought of those years, how much he had missed of life, he was there. The Centre was the home of his nightmares, the only home he ever remembered, despite his attempts otherwise.  
  
He setup post a half-mile outside the Centre’s walls, just close enough to see and not be seen. Beneath him was the blanket he had brought with him and, at one corner, a picnic basket. There was a woman, too, as still and silent as he preferred to be himself. She smelled of something wild, something Jarod couldn’t place.  
  
It shouldn’t seem unusual, for someone to look as she does—all that dark hair, with a slim waist that fell to narrow hips—to have a mouth that looked as if it preferred to quirk into a smile than frown as it had been doing. What should be odd, he felt certain, was that she appeared here with him every night, though they’d never met before, never spoke. But, as solitary as his mission to destroy the Centre was, he liked having her near him in the silence, in the dark. He liked smelling her before he saw that she had arrived.  
  
He never spent much time with women. He met them, helped them, even wanted to love them, but his need to bring down the Centre encompassed everything. It was a constant, fighting against the Centre’s intrusions, saving the lives that they would have otherwise let go. But when it was possible, he made sure he lived as much as he could; all the things he missed out on when growing up, all the things he may have never known of had he not escaped. Ice Cream, Pez, Wheel of Fortune.   
  
Now there was her, unlike any other woman he’d known. She didn’t look at him, didn’t smile, didn’t question or provide answers. She just sat with him, watching the walls with an occasional twitch of her hands, like she’d be ready to scale the sides of the Centre if he were to make the move to do so.  
  
He knew there would be more to her, more than he could guess, if only he’d ask. In their silence, though, he felt as if they’d agreed upon something: no questions, no answers, no anything. They’d just sit, watch, and leave before the sun rose.  
  
After she appeared for the fifth time, Jarod decided it was his duty to be hospitable. It was, after all, his stake out, his mission. He didn’t know why she was there, but he wasn’t sure he cared. He knew why he was there and that she was no keeping him company.  
  
He had a feeling that, if he were to need help in getting in or out of the Centre, she’d be beside him. She may not have liked to but she would have. And so, based on just the hypothetical, Jarod found himself bringing picnic accessories: a blanket, sweet soda’s and a basket of food—fried chicken, mostly, as he was currently fond of southern food.  
  
She didn’t eat—didn’t even acknowledge that the setup was different—until he made her a plate and set it in front of her. When she had finally pulled it to her lap, Jarod nearly smiled. He never watched her directly, never turned his eyes completely away from the Centre, but he saw the movement of her hand as it reached into her leather jacket and pulled out an odd-shaped stick. He saw her spear large chunks of potato salad and, after ignoring his shift of the plastic utensils he brought, stab a fried chicken breast with such force that it neither toppled nor slid as she brought it to her mouth.  
  
It was several nights before the wonder stilled into amusement and amusement into acceptance. He shouldn’t think she was peculiar when she made no mention of his assorted Pez Dispensers that lined one side of the blanket’s edge. From what he could see of her in his peripheral, she never registered much of what he did. She never even raised an eyebrow when he slid one pez from each of his dispensers in turn: Fred Flintstone, Master Yoda, Kermit the Frog, Bugs Bunny, repeat.   
  
Soon it was a ritual for them: meet in the dark, have a picnic, don’t say anything—not even an “I kill monsters” or “my absolute favorite Pez dispenser is Fred Flintstone.” They don’t speak because the night is for keeping secrets and both have too many they could share.  
  
It was a month before he saw that she was becoming fidgety. He knew she was strong of will, determined, and so he knew too that this wasn’t a good sign for her. He felt fidgety himself, as it seemed the right time to sneak into the Centre was never going to happen.  
  
“It’s never going to happen,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper, echoing his own thoughts.  
  
Strange. Her voice was warm like honey but made his mind think of gravel. He knew that her voice made his stomach clench but he didn’t know what to think of this breach in their silent agreement.  
  
“What’s not,” Jarod asked.  
  
She turned to face him. Her eyes, which had been as focused on the Centre as his had been, were shades of amber—darkened by the night, softly lit by the moon.   
  
“The opening.”  
  
“The opening,” he repeated back to her, watched as her eyes narrowed at his.  
  
“I was supposed to help—help fight because they’ve got some Nasties—but they’re not budging and you don’t need me.”  
  
Jarod didn’t know what to think of this, didn’t know if he _could_ think because her voice was doing things to his insides that he’d never experienced before.  
  
They both knew that she was leaving—she wasn’t needed and she’d move on.  
  
“Will you be all right,” he asked. He wanted to add _Fight who? Fight what? Opening?_ but knew she wouldn’t say.  
  
That mouth; he watched as her mouth twitched, almost lifting into a smile. He watched as she stood, brushing herself off as though she’d been rolling in the grass just moments before. When she stopped she looked at him, took a step towards him. She bent down and her hair cascaded over her shoulders, past his face, and she placed something in his right hand.   
  
The wild scent of her intoxicated him, made him breathe her in deeper, made him breathe her in more. He closed his eyes and she filled his head.  
  
When she moved to stand she stopped, a hair’s breadth from his face, with her lips close to his. She hovered there, taking in her own breath, feeling his on her face.  
  
“I’m always all right, Slick; five by five.”  
  
He didn’t hear her move but he felt a slice of cold air cut into his face where she had been. When he opened his eyes she was gone, had disappeared; it was as if she had never really been there. In his hand though, right where she had placed it moments ago, was a red plastic dispenser.   
  
A black-haired vampire head sat at the top, its fanged mouth was open wide, full with pez.


End file.
